


Spice up Your Life

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Het, Kissing, smutty fluff; food-related UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, maybe she should have warned him. Then again, she thinks, this is the most fun she’s had in days, so maybe not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spice up Your Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scribblecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribblecat/gifts).



> I don't know what this is, to be honest. I was cooking Mexican food on the weekend and had a sudden mental picture of "Hook vs The Hot Pepper" and it kind of snowballed from there. It's set vaguely in Season Three (with no Big Bads currently chasing them).

~*~

 

In hindsight, maybe she should have warned him.

Then again, she thinks, this is the most fun she’s had in days, so maybe not.  

“Bloody hell!”  He chokes out the words through his teeth, his normally melodious speech-pattern a strangled shadow of its usual self.  He coughs once, then twice, glaring at the generous layer of green sauce he’d just splashed over his hunter’s stew.  “What kind of dark magic is this?”

“No magic,” she tells him, biting the inside of her mouth to keep from smirking.  “Just Granny’s homemade jalapeno sauce.”    He looks at her blankly with watering eyes, twin spots of colour staining his cheekbones, and she realises he has no idea what she’s talking about. _What was it about the Enchanted Forest people and Mexican food?_ “Jalapenos. They’re a type of hot pepper  - hey, are you _crying?_ ”

His reply is swift, and a complete and utter lie. “ _No_.” He blinks rapidly, long eyelashes glistening with tears, dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin in a quietly frantic way that she knows from experience will do nothing to alleviate the chilli burn he’s suffering.  She sips her hot chocolate and waits, knowing an entertainingly eloquent diatribe is surely on its way.  

He doesn’t disappoint. “Why would anyone create such a disagreeable potion?”  He taps his fork hard against the side of the glass bottle of Granny’s admittedly scarily hot homemade sauce, almost knocking it over. “What is the point of streaming eyes and a tongue so scorched that a man can no longer taste his food?”

“Granny always makes it extra hot.” She shrugs, watching him as he tries to wipe his watering eyes without her noticing, enjoying the show more than she cares to admit.  When he’d dropped uninvited into Henry’s newly vacated seat across from her with a winsome grin, the thought of telling him she’d rather eat dinner alone hadn’t even occurred to her.  Not that they’d actually eaten dinner together - she’d finished her meal before his had even arrived - but he’d entertained her with stories of his adventures on the high seas (of varied and occasionally dubious validity) while she ate, and made her laugh more than once. Her days have become kind of predictable lately - that was saying something in this place – and despite the fact that being with him made her feel as though someone has turned her insides into a butter churner, he’s good company. Company that is currently red-faced and teary-eyed, she thinks with a pang of empathy. “Some people like to add a little kick to their food.”  

Muttering something that sounds very much like a string of curse words most likely to be favoured by a 300 year old pirate, he reaches for his tankard of beer, obviously wanting to douse the fire on his tongue.  Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s wrapping her fingers around his wrist, stilling his hand.

“Don’t drink that.”

He frowns, then his gaze drops to where her hand is curled around his wrist, fingertips pressed against his pulse.  Lifting his eyes to hers, he licks his lips, and something hot tightens low in her belly. “Why not?”

She suddenly very much wants to brush her thumb across the back of his hand to see if it’s as warm as the soft skin of his wrist, and the realisation has her awkwardly releasing her grasp. “It’ll only make it worse.”   She toys briefly with the idea of explaining how capsaicin stimulates the tongue and why alcohol definitely won’t help, but God help her, she cannot have a conversation with this man about his tongue. Besides, Henry may have left the booth, but his half-finished milkshake remains.  “Drink this, it’ll help,” she assures him as she slides the glass across the table. “Hope you like chocolate.”

Whether he likes it or not, he doesn’t say, but either out of discomfort or complete faith in her, he doesn’t hesitate.  He gulps the chocolate milk down like a liquid lifeline, reddened lips pursed and cheeks faintly hollowed out, and watching him drink a milkshake through a candy-striped straw shouldn’t make her shift uncomfortably in her seat but it does, and she has no freaking idea what she’s going to do about it.

After downing all but an inch of Henry’s chocolate milk, his eyes have stopped watering, the flush gradually fading from his face.  Carefully scraping the layer of green sauce to one side, he takes a cautious bite of unsullied stew, then swallows with obvious relief.  “I’ve seen the Prince pour that devil’s liquid all over his food on more than one occasion.”

He sounds faintly resentful, and it suddenly becomes clear.  _Ah_ , she thinks, and it’s even harder to keep from grinning.  _Monkey see, monkey do_.  It seems her dinner companion is not above taking his social cues from her father. Which is all very well, she supposes (if a little weird) but who would have thought the dread pirate Hook would be bested by a condiment?

Finally giving into the urge to grin, she smiles at him as she wraps her hands around her mug.  “David likes his food spicy.”

His gaze drops to her smiling mouth, dances lightly over her neck (the ponytail seemed like a good choice this morning, but right now, she’s not so sure) then back up to meet her eyes. “Is that right?” She would swear that he hasn’t moved an inch in his seat, but his knee is suddenly close enough to brush against hers underneath the table, and there is no way that the simple contact of a kneecap against hers should make her think things she has no business thinking in broad daylight in public but again, it does. “Tell me, love.  Are you your father’s daughter when it comes to liking certain things…hot?”

He clicks his tongue on the last word, the T sounding hard and ridiculously tantalising, and a prickle of heat dances down her spine, spreading across her chest and belly until she’s sure she’s blushing from scalp to toenails and every single nook and cranny in between.

She should say something.  She should definitely shift her knee away from his under the table, but something seems to be short-circuiting the connection between her brain and her body, and that _something_ is sitting across from her in this damned booth, his mouth curved in a smile that makes more than clear he knows exactly why she’s fidgeting in her seat.

His knee presses against hers once again, then she feels the brush of his calf against hers, and she suddenly feels as though she’s swallowed a bucket of Granny’s green sauce herself.  

“Mom!”

She’s saved by Henry, who suddenly materialises at her elbow, talking a mile-a-minute about his horse and how David was going to show him how to joust.   Doing her best to ignore Hook’s ‘this is not over, Swan’ expression, she hastily slides out of her side of the booth.  “Jousting?  Seriously?”

She shoos Henry back towards the counter and David, then leans down, putting her lips to Hook’s ear, belatedly answering his question with one of her own. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw, then he tilts his head, just enough to let his mouth hover dangerously close to hers.  “I think we've established the answer to that question, love.”

Safety in numbers no longer feels safe in any way, shape or form. 

After another hour or so spent with Henry and David (who would have thought she would be related to people who could talk about sword fighting for that long?), an hour during which she very carefully doesn’t look in Hook’s direction, it’s finally time to flee while her dignity is still semi-intact.  

“I can drop Henry at Regina’s if you like,” David offers brightly (and a little too loudly) as they make their way to the door of the diner.  “You’ve pulled the early shift all week, you should go home, put your feet up.”

She barely has time to blink before Henry agrees, hugs her tightly, and then they’re gone, leaving her to make her way out of the diner alone.   A moment later, she’s utterly unsurprised to find her erstwhile dinner companion strolling out behind her into the early evening cool.  The familiar thrill of tension starts to hum through her blood, and she suddenly wonders just how much longer she can keep running around in circles with this man.

“Leaving without saying goodnight, Swan? That’s hardly a good example for a well-mannered sheriff to be setting.”  He’s walking beside her now, matching his gait to hers, his leather-clad shoulder almost but not quite brushing hers. “What _would_ the Mayor say?”

“Well, I won’t tell if you don’t,” she says lightly, and is rewarded by the sound of his rough chuckle. Perhaps she should be irritated that he’s once again dogging her every step, but there is something innately comforting about having him trudge alongside her. The streetlights have already flickered on, glowing in the darkening street.  She knows the illusion of being alone with him is just that, an illusion, but it’s enough to make her feel faintly reckless.  

“How’s your tongue?”  He quirks a suggestive eyebrow, and she feels a dull heat creep up the back of her neck.   _Damn it._ She used to be so much better at this sort of thing, and she’s pretty sure she knows the reason why she constantly feels as though she’s tripping over her own thoughts these days.  “I mean, no lasting damage?”

His right hand curls around her elbow, drawing her gently into the shadows thrown by the side wall of Granny’s dinner.  Leaning back against the wall, he tugs her closer, his hand sliding up her arm until his fingertips brush the end of her ponytail.   “Well, it’s hard to say,” he murmurs, his fingers tangling softly in her hair, fingertips teasing the line of her collarbone.  “You tell _me_.”

Then he’s kissing her, his mouth warm and firm, his hand curling around the nape of her neck.  It’s a slow, languid tasting at first, keeping time with her breath and her heartbeat, then she opens her mouth to his kiss and his tongue tangles with hers, and it’s no longer slow and no longer languid but a greedy hot living thing that has her clutching at his shoulders and arching against him. He tastes sweet and spicy, like chocolate and salt and God help her, green chili, and she wants to devour him whole.  Sinking her teeth into his bottom lip, she pushes him against the wall with the weight of her body, her feet almost tripping over his in her haste.

He mutters something rough and broken, then his hand is sliding into her hair, dislodging her ponytail with a gentle jerk, the cool metal of his hook finding the thin band of exposed skin at the small of her back, making her shudder.  “Emma,” he mutters in a dark, thick voice, his breath hot against her throat, then his right hand is sliding down her back and pressing her hard against him, letting her feel him, the rigid thrust of him finding the soft, hollow ache between her thighs. _Oh, God._  Operating on pure instinct, she hooks one leg around his, rocking her hips against him, and the pleasure that shoots through her is verging on the point of pain.  

A low groan shakes his chest, and she thinks she can taste the shudder that goes through him.  This is madness, she knows, but she’s so tired of being so many things to so many people and right now, she’s the woman this man wants with every breath in his body, and that’s a heady intoxication all its own.  

“Maybe we should get out of-” His mouth covers hers in another kiss that has her scrambling to get closer, stealing her words.  Her hands slide over his chest, gliding beneath his heavy silver pendant, finding warm skin and crisp hair and tight muscles that tense at her touch and why on earth has she waited so long to do this –

“Emma? Are you still here?”

_Fuck._

The sound of her father’s voice calling her name is like a dozen buckets of cold water.  Hook swears softly under his breath, but when he lifts his head, his smile is one of resignation, as though he’s not in the least surprised they’ve been interrupted.

Putting one hand flat on his chest, she pushes him back into the shadows, then lifts a finger to her lips.  He raises his eyebrows, his kiss-reddened mouth curving in a smug smile, but he finally nods.  Smoothing back her hair, she plasters a smile on her face and strolls back to the front of Granny’s diner to find David’s truck idling at the kerb, her son’s apologetic face at the passenger window.  “Sorry, Emma. I left my game in your car.”

She smiles at him, truly hoping he’s naïve enough not to wonder why her lip gloss is now smeared ten ways from Sunday.  “Can’t survive a night without it,” she agrees wryly, making her way to her car on legs that feel like cooked lasagne noodles.  She finds the game shoved down the side of the passenger seat, then tosses it to her son with a grin. “Good luck beating that high score, kid.”

“Everything okay?”   David is looking at her with wide eyes.  “We were heading back to the loft but then we saw your car was still here-”

“Everything’s good. Just checking a few things out.” Smiling, Emma goes to tap the sheriff’s badge on her belt. When her fingers find nothing but her belt, she realises that her badge must be lying on the ground in the shadows behind Granny’s place _.  Right next to the boots worn by the pirate she’d just been kissing and feeling up.  You know how it is, Dad._

David doesn’t look convinced, but to her relief, he nods.  “Don’t stay out too late.”  He flashes her a grin. “I can’t have my boss burning out.”

She waves them off (again) with an audible sigh of relief.  Without turning her head, she addresses the man who has magically materialised at her shoulder. “Are you staying at Granny’s?”

His hand is on her back, under her leather jacket, one single fingertip trailing down her spine, shooting tiny arrows of sensation in its wake.  “Not tonight.”

She closes her eyes as the hand slides further down, his palm warm against her hip and then the curve of her ass, making her inhale a sharp breath. “Want a lift to the docks?”

His hand stills, then she feels the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck, the perennial three-day growth of stubble of his chin scraping lightly against her skin. “Are you sure that’s wise, love?”

“Pretty sure it’s not.”  She leans backwards, her back pressed against his chest, her hips pushing back against his with an accuracy that has him sucking in a sharp breath of his own.  “But maybe it’s time to spice a few things up.”

“If you insist, Sheriff.” He curves his right arm around her, hand sliding across her belly, fingertips brushing the zipper of her jeans.  Her legs turning to water, she opens her mouth to tell him that _she can’t, not here, God, please don’t stop,_ then she feels the click of her badge being clipped onto her belt.  “I confess I’ve acquired a sudden taste for it myself.”

 

~*~

 


End file.
